Tag: parenthood

I’ve got to get up before the sun to get some peace & quiet… and to enjoy a cup of coffee before the litany of questions begin.

My hair’s kind of all over the place lately. It’s growing out from a pixie cut. Which basically translates into chaos atop my head. But it’s managed chaos. And I kind of like it.

Unless I have to blow-dry it.

My hair is wavy. Unless I break out the blowdryer. Then it’s flat as a pancake. No… flatter. A crepe. It’s as flat as a crepe. And then I hate it and want to shave it off.

So, obviously, I’ve got motivation to let it air dry. The GI Jane look is so 1997, you know?

Anyway, I asked my buddy, who has much curlier hair that is actually styled by a professional (my last haircut was almost a year ago), if she let’s her hair air dry even in the winter. She sure does. I think she saw my perplexed look–because it’s about 30 degrees in Atlanta in the mornings.

“Well,” she said slowly… “I wash my hair an hour before I leave the house. So it’s dry before I go to work.”

Ah, yes. Of course. Got it.

But I can’t do that.

Not because I am not up an hour before I leave the house. I am. In fact, I’m up TWO hours before we leave the house.

But…

I purposely get up before the sun so I can start my day the way I want to. I get up and read and meditate and prepare for the day before any of my people (even the dog) have stirred from their slumber. Well, at least that’s the plan. Sometimes, I swear Jane can smell me wake up. And then she’s up, too. But the very hope of having a moment to start my day, of having a cup of coffee without a soul asking me questions, that hope’s enough to drive me out of bed at 5:30 a.m.

And then, by 6, the circus has begun. And it’s a lovely circus. These are, in fact, my monkeys and my circus.

But they’re distracting. And before I realize it, it’s 7:10. And my hair cannot handle another round of dry shampoo. Well, maybe it could, but we don’t really want to test that, do we?

But here’s the thing, no one can follow me into the shower. I mean, they could technically. But they won’t because they’ve got relatively good boundaries. And while Jane won’t follow me into the shower, the very sight of me with a book in hand makes her remember the 145,000 things she forgot to tell me. Even though she just saw me a moment ago and her only concern then was whether or not I remembered to buy her a Lunchable.

That’s one of a million things they don’t tell you about being a mom: You will not be able to get a minute to yourself. Not for the first 8 years at least. But, while I’m jockeying for just one moment alone, I’m also very conscious of the fact that, one day, I’ll long for this time when she both wanted and needed me. One day, I’ll have all the time alone I could ever want.

Which makes getting up at 5:30 a.m. just to get some peace & quiet seem not so bad.

I started a 31 day yoga practice. It’s going nothing at all like I expected.

I’ve always been kind of flummoxed about how to shift my spiritual practice from it’s designated quiet, morning time out into my larger life. Because Lord knows I need some peace in the chaos of an average day. But–and this was the case until very recently–all the connectivity to my inner peace & the greater love of the Universe had gone all to shit by about 2pm.

And that felt BAD. It feels kinda defeating (and a little whiplash inducing) to be all namaste in the morning and all look-at-me-again-and-I’ll-cut-you in the afternoon. But my centering and balance seemed to wear off. I mean, is that even a thing?!?

When I got into A Course in Miracles, the daily lessons helped. Because you don’t get to just read them in the morning, dwell on them a bit, and let them go. You have to keep reviewing them at multiple points throughout the day. It’s like they want the ideas to stick or something.

Now, ideally, I was supposed to find a quiet time to reflect by myself with my eyes closed. But the book did make it clear that I should use whatever time I could find. I discovered that trying to find a quiet minute meant that it would never happen. So, I started meditating on the lesson wherever I was, amid whatever was going on, with my eyes open. In the car? Yep. Walking the dog? Yep. Staring at (but not seeing) my computer screen? Yep. To be sure, this kind of come-as-you-are meditation doesn’t always allow me to feel the deep & abiding presence of the Universe. But I am also not losing my proverbial shit by 2pm anymore. And I am more grounded and connected to the world around me.

Part of my January commitment to myself was doing yoga daily for 31 days. When I made this commitment, I imagined a still, quiet practice centered on my breath, on connecting with the divine, on bliss…

Yeah.

Not once in the past week have I experienced an uninterrupted practice. It’s like Jane has a sixth sense. As soon as I get on the mat, she has some question that she will spontaneously combust if she doesn’t ask me. Or she just wants to look at me. Or she wants to be near me, so suddenly she’s standing 1mm from me in mountain pose.

So, I did what the past 10 years of sobriety have taught me so well: I dropped all my expectations. And I invited Jane to grab a mat and join me.

Doing yoga next to Jane is the equivalent of doing yoga next to a squirrel with a meth problem. I’m in downward dog. She’s laying on her back with her feet straight up in the air. I’m in boat pose, and she’s in tree pose next to me. It’s nutty.

But I’ve learned to tune into her presence (which is all love and light) and tune out her antics (which are real, real extra). I’m beginning to cherish the time we spend side by side on our mats, even though it certainly wasn’t what I envisioned for my January yoga practice.

But when were sitting cross-legged, breathing deeply, and she reaches over to hold my hand… that’s all the connection to the Universe I could possibly ask for.

Know what grace looks like for me? It looks like reckoning with a 1000 piece puzzle. It looks like family. It looks like gratitude.

It’s been a few weeks since Jane and I embarked on our Epic Puzzling Adventure. One day at Target, more or less on a whim, I picked up a 1000 piece puzzle because I am a glutton for punishment adventurous. A puzzle seemed like a nifty, wholesome way for Jane and I to do some quality time. I mean, usually I opt for giggling with her as people face-plant on AFV or expressing my deeply held belief about Pilgrims in our spare time. But, I mean, a puzzle could be fun, too.

We dumped the entire puzzle on the dining room table and set about sorting through ONE THOUSAND PIECES to find all the edge pieces. The sheer volume of little funny shaped cardboard pieces meant they got shuffled all about, some teetering precariously on the edge of the table. Our boxer pup slimed at least one of them as she sniffed to figure out if they seemed edible (that dog and I have VERY different ideas about what might be edible). Occasionally, Jane and I would hear a piece quietly thunk to the floor. And then we’d yell, “DON’T LET THE DOG GET IT!”, as we both scrambled to find it before Delilah used it as her daily dose of fiber.

Pro Tip: If it’s going to take you weeks to finish a puzzle, you probably shouldn’t leave it on the dining room table. If you do, pieces will get shuffled under papers. Someone might use your puzzle as a coaster. The dog might occasionally try to snag a piece off the table, not really because she’s interested but because it’ll get a rise out of the whole family.

Jane and I took to doing the puzzle in spurts. We’d start on it and get really engrossed in finding a specific kind of piece. I liked the aqua camper. She got entranced by the fire. Then, invariably, one of us would get bored and wander off (usually her) while the other puzzled on valiantly (usually me). But even if Jane wandered off, she’d pop back in frequently, always finding a piece to snap into place or cheering me on when I was on a hot puzzling streak (you wish you were me, don’t you? I know. I’m hella cool.)

These moments, when we were working together toward something that seemed almost unreachable, they gave me hope. The whole trope about mothers and daughters not getting along really bugs me. I love my kid a lot. But I also really LIKE her. I value her input. I think she has stellar ideas. She’s introspective and kind. I want her to choose me when she’s an adult. I am hyper aware that children do not have to choose to allow parents to be part of their lives. I hope I am the kind of mother that she will want to rely on, that she will trust, that she’ll look to for encouragement and support. And the fact that we could work together on this damn puzzle, even when one of us got frustrated, meant something to me. It meant a lot, really.

As we got close to the end, Jane kept wanting to count the pieces. And I tried my hardest to stop her. I just knew, after all the shuffling, falling, coaster-using… I knew we’d be missing some pieces. Well, I didn’t know. But I assumed. And I didn’t want to know for sure. Because why would it be worth it to do this crazy big puzzle, if we couldn’t even get all the pieces together? I mean, what would be the point even?

And sure enough…

But, in the most bizarre twist, I realized that I wasn’t bothered. Not really. Because if you leaned back a little, that missing piece wasn’t as noticeable. My eyes kept landing, instead, on the parts of the puzzle Jane & I had adopted as our own, the ones we’d worked so hard on.

And if I stood back even further, all I could really see was all the bright colors, and the woodland creatures wreaking havoc on a hapless campground, and the hours of fun and camaraderie. Unless I looked for it, I really couldn’t see that missing piece at all.

Jane keeps asking if it bugs me, that we’re missing ONE piece. I get why she asks: I kind of acted like it would be the dawn of the apocalypse if we lost a piece. But I keep assuring her that it doesn’t matter.

For my first 33 years, I spent so much time fixated on what was lacking. Looking back, it feels like sometimes lack was ALL I could see. I missed lots of beautiful people, experiences, moments … they were all muted, drowned out by what I thought I didn’t have.

Know what grace is for me? Realizing that lack no longer defines my worldview. That each day, I’m astounded by what I do have. Because my whole life could’ve gone down so very differently. Getting sober taught me to see all the beauty that weaves itself together, so that lack isn’t apparent. It taught me to look at the bigger picture–and to be grateful for the 999 pieces that we do still have.

This is Sam I Am. I love him. But we had a falling out earlier this week. I’m trying to forgive. Really. But he’s an elf. He has ONE JOB. I just need him to do that job. Is that too much to ask?

This is Sam I Am, our Elf on the Shelf. This little dude caused me some serious angst earlier this week.

Let me start out by clarifying that the elf & I, we are buddies. I love this damn thing. He’s mischievous. And silly. He gets into a kinds of stuff. Makes Jane laugh first thing in the morning. And, above all, our elf is NOT a snitch. He doesn’t report back to Santa. Because we’re not living in an Orwell novel. He just hangs out with us at Christmastime. End of story.

Every year, Sam I Am magically appears right after Thanksgiving. One time he showed up in Nana’s red button drawer (yes, Nana has SO MANY BUTTONS that there is a special drawer just for the red ones). But most times, he’s chillin’ somewhere in the house when we return from Thanksgiving.

That’s what happened this time. He was taking a little snooze in one of Jane’s doll beds when we got home. We ooohhhed and ahhhed over his adorableness. We talked about how tired he must’ve been from his trip. Jane was over the moon with excitement. She’d been looking forward to his visit all the way home from Florida (for all SEVEN excruciating hours in the car).

This Christmas Season was looking all kinds of promising.

Then the little bastard didn’t move during the night. So when Jane woke up the next morning, he was in EXACTLY the same spot he’d been the day before.

And she was CRUSHED.

Did someone accidentally touch him? she fretted. What if LiLi sniffed him and he lost his magic? What if he was NEVER GOING TO MOVE AGAIN?!?!

If I were to begin to describe to you exactly how awful I felt, what a failure I felt like as a parent, because this damn elf hadn’t moved, you’d think I was exaggerating. But, for real, y’all… holidays are kind of hard for me. But this elf is pure magic. Joy. I love him so. AND HE HADN’T MOVED. And now our whole house was in mourning.

Fortunately, because he’s magic, Sam I Am pulled his shit together, broke ALL the elf rules, and moved during the day, while Jane was playing in her fort outside. He left a note, which I didn’t photograph because I don’t keep tangible evidence of my worst parenting moments, but it went something like this:

Jane,

Sorree I made yoo askared. I wuz tired.

<3, Sam I Am

Jane found him on our bookshelves with a cup on his head and various other stackable cups strewn about around him. She forgave him right away. Because she’s good like that. I’m a little slower to forgive, but I’m coming around.

Welcome to Remotely Intellectual! Grab a cup of coffee & let’s discuss life. Parenting? Oh, yeah. I’ll write about that in all it’s messy glory. Recovery? Yup. It’s the basis of everything good in my life. So it comes up quite a bit. Spirituality? Oof. I’m a hot mess on that one. But you can watch my explorations unfold right here! Atlanta? Love it! And coffee.

Hey, y’all!

Welcome to Remotely Intellectual! Grab a cup of coffee & let’s discuss life. Parenting? Oh, yeah. I’ll write about that in all it’s messy glory. Recovery? Yup. It’s the basis of everything good in my life. So it comes up quite a bit. Spirituality? Oof. I’m a hot mess on that one. But you can watch my explorations unfold right here! Atlanta? Love it! And coffee. And social justice type stuff–like racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia. We’re going to talk about it all.

Oh! And I’m reading 43 books during my 43rd year & reviewing them all for you–in 250 words or less. It’s currently one of my favorite projects. Check it out:

I’m super excited about this new space. For those of you coming over from Rocket Fuel, you’ll find the same content but under a much more apt name. Because really, what am I if not remotely intellectual?

Rocket Fuel got its start as the offshoot of Rocket Designs (a recovery brand that Simon & I launched together). Originally, all my posts looped back to recovery (as everything in my life does). But, I started to feel a little stifled by being tied to a theme…

Rocket Fuel got its start as the offshoot of Rocket Designs (a recovery brand that Simon & I launched together). Originally, all my posts looped back to recovery (as everything in my life does). But, I started to feel a little stifled by being tied to a theme…

At the same time, Simon and I got pulled in different directions (by things like his transition, a move to Atlanta, a near break-up). We decided to continue selling recovery shirts online, but not to further develop the brand. Which left Rocket Fuel hanging around in cyberspace on it’s own.

And soon, I started to wonder if the name really fit what was happening on the blog. And what I want to happen in the future. What do I want to do more of? Well, I’ve dabbled in fiction. (I’ve got a whole middle grades book written… but not published. Remind me to work on that). I love to read (and I’d like to talk about what I’m reading a bit more…) And I want to do a lot more critical thinking and writing about what’s happening in Atlanta (and in the world at large).

What won’t change? Well, me being me. Which means a whole hell of a lot of honesty. And some cussing. And lots of pictures of my kid. And post about running and recovery and coffee and spirituality and parenthood and LIFE.

This beautiful, little human is trying to kill me. I mean, not with anything as overt as knives and such. But with eye rolls and sighs, ingratitude and accusations. And if you tell me it will only get worse as she gets older, I will jump through this screen and kick your ass.

This beautiful, little human is trying to kill me. I mean, not with anything as overt as knives and such. But with eye rolls and sighs, ingratitude and accusations. And if you tell me it will only get worse as she gets older, I will jump through this screen and kick your ass.

This weekend unfolded in amazing family time and sullen attitudes, in turn. By the time we inched our way toward bedtime last night, I was done. Done being artfully insulted, accused of unfairness, and in general not appreciated. Also, done with a 7 year old acting like I couldn’t possibly, ever know as much as she does.

It’s exhausting as hell, this mothering thing. Trying to act magnanimous, when my feelings are hurt and I just want to cry. Feeling thwarted at every turn. Wondering if, perhaps, I’m a terrific failure at parenting after all.

Lately, I’ve been wanting to spend more structured, thoughtful time with Jane, and I’ve been turning over questions of spiritual principles and practices, so on our epictour of bookstores in Atlanta, I picked out a Buddhist book of bedtime stories that we could read together. If you’re a parent, you probably know where this is going. Because there is a direct correlation between how much a parent wants something to work (to be special or really to matter in any significant way) and how much the child DOES NOT WANT ANY PART OF IT.

As she was headed to bed, I told her I’d like to read her a story.

So far, so good.

Then she saw me turn a few pages. “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO START AT THE BEGINNING,” she instructed, haughtily.

Ahem.

I kept my shit together pretty well. “Yes, usually, But you’re going to have to trust that I know how to read this book.” I swear, I was speaking in melodic tones while trying not to lose my mind.

“Now, close your eyes. And take a…”

“I DON’T WANT TO CLOSE MY EYES.”

“Jane. For real, dude. Just chill. You’re going to like this. It’s like when you meditate…”

“I DON’T MEDITATE.”

Now, I needed to take deep breaths. “OKAY. But you do yoga. So it’s like that. Now, point your toes down, then up…”

“How long do I have to DO THIS. JUST READ ME A STORY.”

I closed the book, said good night, and walked out of her room. I did not yell (on the outside). I did not make her responsible for my emotions. But my feelings were hurt, for sure. And I was frustrated as hell by her general crappiness and her snotty attitude.

The irony: I got the book so she could learn to manage her emotions when she doesn’t get her way. Or when things don’t go 100% as expected. (I guess we could all use some instruction on that realm). Her go-to lately is just to spin wildly out of control. Not cool. Not cool at all.

I mean, at least she showed me that I wasn’t WRONG about her needing a way to create some balance in her inner world.

Then, this morning, after I’d worked pretty damn hard to shake off the night before, I asked her if she’d like a hug. “Nah,” she said, walking away and tossing her hair over her shoulder.

My 7 year old blew me off.

I spent the whole ride to school chanting (in my head, mostly): She is not responsible for my emotions. She is not responsible for my emotions.

But, GOD, I felt like she stabbed a tiny knife in my heart and the wound might take an eternity to heal. I’m not sure why it smarted so much. I know she’s just trying to prove that she doesn’t need me all the time. She’s separating from me in ways that are normal and age-apporpriate. But, I guess lately I’ve just felt like she doesn’t respect me. And that is where I feel like I’ve gone horribly wrong. Because I deserve respect, for no other reason than that I am a human sharing this world with her. And somehow she’s come to believe that respecting me is an optional endeavor.

None of this is a plea for affirmation or sympathy. I share a lot of the joyous moments in parenthood. And I focus on redemption a lot–because so many of the beautiful parts of life revolve around that them. But this is a real, honest assessment that parenting is hard as fuck. It’s brutal and exhausting. And sometimes, it just feels soul-sucking.

And that’s why Facebook invented the Memories feature. So, when I’m contemplating moving into a yurt in the middle of the Montana wilderness just to get away from my ungrateful, disrespectful offspring, I can be taken completely unawares by a picture of her when she was just two years old and thought I hung the moon. Then I can remember that, despite what a little shit she’s been, I love her more than anything else in this world.